


Lo; the Smoke of the Land Rose

by Lise



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Daddy Issues, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Lise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingolfin's last ride. Fingon's last goodbye. Or, what it is to be an eldest son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lo; the Smoke of the Land Rose

Fingon had been very young when his father had told him what it meant to be the eldest. “You’ll be their role model,” he said. “The one they look to, even over me. When they are afraid, they will look to you to soothe them. When they are angry, they will look to you for vindication. When they sorrow, they will look to you for comfort and for strength.”

And that was what he had to be now. Strong. Steadfast. 

His father rode out in a blaze of desperation. “He’ll come back,” Fingon had said, knowing no one believed it. In his heart, a small child’s response: he can’t die now! They had crossed the Grinding Ice, conquered treachery. Surely…

Aredhel had cried herself to sleep, and a hush fell over the host, shut up in Hithlum, beaten back, despairing. He could feel it, almost taste it, and didn’t know how to mend it. 

The warhorse returned first, faithful Rochallor. He was lathered and frantic, and died quickly, before he saw his master’s body borne home. 

Eagles returned his body, broken and shattered and bloody, to them. Fingon stared at what was left of his father and thought, vaguely, that it hardly even looked like him. Fingolfin was brave and bold and standing tall, he was rich laughter and strong arms and an open heart. He was. 

Already, his mind adjusted the tense. 

Aredhel did not cry in front of the host, but her lip was bitten clean through. Turgon held her close. Fingon thought of Argon, lost on the ice, and wondered if they’d already found each other in the Halls. “He wounded the Dark Lord,” said Thorondor, who had carried the High King himself. “Many times, before he was felled.”

Fingon stared numbly at his father’s body, feeling lost. “Get – bearers,” he heard himself say, as if from far away. “He needs to be washed – cleaned…”

_He’s dead,_ a voice in his head was saying unhelpfully. _He’s dead, you’re High King._

His second thought was that more than anything he wished Maedhros were here. His fingernails bit into his palm. _No,_ Fingon thought, savagely. There were still battles to be fought. His grief…

Was not so important. 

_Strong. Steadfast._

Turgon’s hand fell lightly on his shoulder. “Brother?” he said, quietly. Fingon shook his head. 

“A moment. I’ll…a moment.” He turned around. They were all still standing there, still, watching him. “To your posts,” he said, perhaps a little too sharply, but he thought they seemed relieved. They needed something to do. He needed something to do. Something to kill. 

_He’d woken in the middle of the night and sat up to see his father walking past, dressed as for battle. “Ata?” he said, sleepily, and his father turned and smiled at him, but it didn’t touch his eyes. His shoulders were bowed. He looked tired, and for the first time Fingon could remember, old._

_“Findekáno,” he said quietly. “Rest.”_

_“Where are you going?”_

_“To do what I must. Someone has to give them heart.”_

_Fingon thought he understood, then. Thought his father meant to make an appearance, perhaps, speak to his men, inspire them after their defeat. “Are you sure you don’t want,” he started to ask, and Fingolfin cut him off._

_“Sleep.” He paused, and then stepped into the room and moved over to his side, reached out and touched his face, lightly, with his fingertips. Only for a moment. “Remember who you are. Remember your duties. And that I love you, and am proud of you.”_

_And then he was gone._

_The next morning, the word was that he’d been seen riding north, armed and armored, alone, and Fingon refused to understand that his father had been saying goodbye._

Fingon wheeled with a yell and smashed his fist into the wall, and only ended up with bleeding knuckles for his trouble. The guards turned to stare at him, and he glared back. If only he had not been so content to lie back. If only he’d understood what his father had intended. If only he had done _something-_

Turgon was beside him, and Aredhel on his other side, her slender body pressed close against his, as though seeking solace from his warmth. Fingon wondered if he was as cold as he felt. “Go,” he told them. “I’ll be with you…soon.”

Aredhel opened her mouth to protest, but Turgon stepped in and drew her gently away. He watched them go before turning his eyes back to Fingolfin’s corpse. Watching him as though he might rise at any moment, and breathe, and live. 

The pall-bearers had come. They moved his father’s broken body onto their burden and lifted him to their shoulders. He fell in beside them, and when they glanced at him, said only, “I want to help put him to rest.” 

They understood that, and let him follow.

* * *

The sense of unreality persisted. He washed the blood and mud away and all the time some small part of him kept whispering _this isn’t him. This isn’t my father. He’ll come back, any minute now, he’ll come back…_

It was beginning to make him want to scream. He could feel it building in the back of his throat and swallowed it down. _Strong. Steadfast._ The despair in the room seemed so thick Fingon imagined he could taste it. 

_With our king, he struck us all down,_ Fingon thought grimly, and his hands paused in the gentle washing of broken limbs. He paused, and his hand lingered on cooling skin for a moment. He felt as though he were about to break away. 

“My lord?” 

Fingon blinked, and looked up. They were all staring at him, and he wondered how long he’d been holding still. He felt the urge to apologize, and ruled it. “Go on,” he said, and stepped back, abandoning his damp cloth. The room smelled like heaviness and death. “I will…”

He fled into the hallway and leaned his forearm against the wall, forehead against flesh, and breathed deeply. 

“He’s at peace,” he whispered. “At peace, and he would have…wanted…”

_It’s not fair! How could he do this to me!_

It wasn’t despair that had driven him out. There was something sick, like rage, deep in his gut. Fingon could feel it boiling. _I’m not ready,_ he thought. _I’m not him._

But he was grown, and would never be ready, not to take his father’s place. He wondered if the Valar would hear him curse their names, if they were listening at all. 

Fingon paced down the hallway, going for his brother’s rooms. He stopped at the door and listened for a moment. Aredhel was sobbing, and he could hear his brother’s low voice, speaking to her quietly, quavering ever so slightly. 

_When they sorrow, they will look to you for strength._

_And who, father,_ Fingon thought, with bitter resentment, _will I look to?_

It did not matter. Could not matter. Their grief was all the grief he could allow himself; theirs and the grief of their host, leaderless, afraid. He lifted his head and prepared to be High King. 

Even more, prepared to be an elder brother.


End file.
